Arenal Volcano Costa Rica
Theodore P. Druch
Less than half the size of her giant sister, Poas volcano, what Arenal lacks in bulk, she makes up for in punch, emitting frequent loud, rolling booms during which material, including boulders of semi-solid lava the size of automobiles or larger, flies out to join centuries worth of debris scattered hither and yon around an almost perfect cone of black cinders. These intermittent explosions are caused by the particularly thick magma which underlies the region. It traps gases within until the pressure becomes so great that they finally break through with enough force to get the giant boulders, and other debris, airborne.
Arenal is the archetype of a volcano and her slopes, well away from the danger zone to be sure, are surrounded by a plethora of hotels, resorts, and spas taking advantage of the natural springs running through the porous rock, and heated by the fires of the earth itself. During our stay in Costa Rica, often with guests, we availed ourselves of several of them, luxuriating in the hot baths and magnificent views of the cinematic volcanowhich could be counted on to provide us with reverberating thunder every ten minutes or so.
Every boom is followed by large puffs of vapor ascending in successive ranks high into the sky; smoke signals from Mother Earth. Rocks and lava continuously flow out over the crater’s rim, tumbling down the barren slopes as far as the edges of the forest growing below, tendrils of mist rising to follow a descending stream like the smoke trail of an old locomotive. Lake Arenal, a large, artificial reservoir, glistens below, and occasional low clouds pass in front of the mountain, turning the view into an airy confection of clouds, steam, rocks, water, and trees; a Japanese landscape painting.
The tangled jungle below the volcano, enriched by 7000 years worth of fertilizing ash deposited since its birth, is teeming with wildlife and, one day we took a tour through the National Park established here.
The odor of wild peccary assaults our nostrils, and birdsong fills our ears. The stinkers and the singers remain out of sight though, save for the occasional glimpse of fur or feather through the green walls of vegetation on either side as we tread our way along a narrow path. A silvery filigree of large spider webs fills the spaces between branches of adjoining trees, creating diaphanous traceries of shimmering silk overhead; a lacy canopy, incandescent in the filtered light which streams down through the leaves and fronds of the forest around us.
Though it’s unseen from the depths of the thicket, we are constantly aware of the volcano whose explosions, now that we are at its very foot, sound like a nearby cannon, and we can feel the vibrations beneath our feet – as well as a tension in the atmosphere. Active volcanoes, no matter how tame they might seem, always carry about them an element of danger and, irrational though it may be, invisibility combined with proximity creates an undercurrent of restlessness and apprehension, as though we would somehow be safer if we could just see the damned thing.
The jungle comes to an end abruptly, giving way to a jumbled vista of black andesite rocks created by Arenal’s lava. We step out of the green shade into a blazing tableau that could be straight out of Dante. Rocks and boulders of all sizes and jagged shapes form a low wall following along the tree line for the full length of the forest which circumscribes the cone, a demarcation so sharp that it’s hard to believe that it hasn’t been fashioned by a landscape architect.
A flat plain extends outward from the trees for several hundred yards and its cinder-strewn surface is peppered with more rocks and boulders of incredible shapes; frozen lava, petrified at the moment it reached a critical cooling point. Green scrub of various kinds pushes up amongst the tumbled rubble, at least until it nears the beginnings of the upward slope of Arenal’s almost perfect cone. From here on, the slopes are barren, covered with volcanic gravel and more boulders. As we look higher, the rocks become larger, stopped where they lay for whatever reason topography dictated that the downward rush of molten lava should reach its nadir; frozen in place until either displaced by later flows, or worn down by the forces of erosion into mere grains of the black sand, arena, which gives Arenal its name.
Scattered everywhere are huge lumps thrown out whole by the powerfully erupting gas; gigantic cinders, asteroidal in shape, of every possible kind, sculpted by the dynamic forces of earth, wind, and fire. Steam rises in places along the slopes, following the paths of flowing lava. It also geysers occasionally from vents, locating the openings of tunnels into the volcano’s fiery heart. High up, a large, tear-drop shaped indentation dimples the face of the 2000 ft high cone, its unstable, gravelly surface filled with huge boulders, trapped there until the concavity collapses from the weight of new deposits and they tumble down the slopes to add their own twisted shapes to the tortured, devastated, and alien landscape below.
This is the ash pan of Hell’s furnace.
The most exciting views of Arenal are at night, relaxing on a chaise on the terrace of your hotel room or, even better, soaking in the outdoor hot pools, letting all the tension of the day’s climb through the forest, visit to the crocodile farm, or windsurfing the lake, drain away in the luxurious lethargy of the steaming water, watching another part of the natural boiler which heats your bath provide a more spectacular show a few miles away.
As the sky darkens, a faint, golden aura begins to manifest itself around the rim of the crater and ejecta can be clearly seen. Glowing yellow and orange in the fading light, giant rocks fly out of the headless beast to fall upon her sloping shoulders, joining flowing streams of now visible lava; fiery rivers tumbling down the precipitous heights. Occasionally, the flood meets invisible obstructions and flaming boulders, like comets, launch themselves high into the air, eventually falling back and breaking into many pieces, which bounce and tumble and become even smaller in their turn. The runnels finally reach the end of their downward flight and the burning rocks slowly fade into oblivion, while our eyes are arrested by new flows pouring out of the crater, fresh, luminous blood gouting from a guillotined corpse.
It’s now fully dark and, from the comfort of our terrace, we watch as the glow around the crater reaches searchlight brightness, sending wide, yellow beams of brilliance to pierce the blackness above. A sudden thunderclap pierces the night, overpowering, for a moment, the symphony of frogs and insects serenading us from the ever-present jungle. A vast shower of sparks, more impressive than any barrage of man-made fireworks, mushrooms up out of Arenal’s gaping neck, reaching high above even the tall searchlights through which they burst. Successive blasts send more and more sparks into the sky, some winking out and others falling back, leaving tracer trails behind as they join the golden rivers streaming down the volcano’s flanks, setting the mountaintop afire.
Smoky flames burst skyward from the crater, dancing their primeval minuet while strands of flaming pearls illuminate the mountainsides like strings of demonic Christmas tree lights. Some lava flows we can see head on; molten firefalls, yellow, orange, and red flames pouring down a hellish cataract. Propelled by a blast of gas, a glowing ember which must be the size of a house continues powerfully upward trailing sparks as its smaller companions begin their slow motion downward plunge; a fiery hibiscus opening its flaming petals above the gates of Hell. The sky above the crater is thick with smoke, glowing with the reflection of the yellow-orange light of the conflagration below. Successive cannonades roll out over the night, and a long, billowing plume trails out behind, clearly illuminated by the brilliant light pouring out of the volcano’s gaping maw.
All night, Arenal continues her show; at times nothing much happens, other times huge flames erupt from the throat of the fire spewing monster, and all the while, the constant rivulets of molten rock continue their downward plunge ‘til, far from the fiery womb which gave them birth, they reach the end of their incandescent lives, dark, cold, and dead.
Fascinated, reluctant to miss a moment of this drama, I try to remain awake, but not even the thunderous volleys echoing from the surrounding mountains and hills can stay the course of nature, and my eyelids droop deeper until I am finally asleep, not to revive until the sky around Arenal glows blood red with the first intimations of the coming dawn.
As the yellow glow of the volcano slowly gives way to the brighter light of day, the constant stream of water vapor, which rises from the crater along with the smoke, can be seen writhing upwards, clearly outlined against the roseate glow of a nearly cloudless sky.
The growing light begins to overpower the conflagration of the lava flows; only the largest of the boulders continue to be visible against the black backdrop of the cinder cone, flinging themselves down with total abandon, suddenly blinking out like the stars in the sky whose beacons are also being extinguished, one by one, as Apollo’s brilliant chariot nears the horizon, overcoming even the fires of Hades.
Another rolling boom is followed by a fat balloon of rising smoke, jet black against the lightening sky, tethered to the mountain by a wispy thread which attenuates ever further as the swirling, restless cloud ascends ever higher. The brilliant rays of the sun suddenly fling themselves upwards over the world’s edge, and black Arenal and its feathery plume are silhouetted against a glowing, golden sky. Now, only the brightest boulders can still be seen, white hot and tiny against the huge blackness of the mountain until they, too, wink out.
The end of the fiery show is heralded by the now stirring birds, who add their morning songs to the diminishing chorus of buzzes and chirps which has never ceased throughout the long night, and the world awakens to a new dawn.
(This article is excerpted from my book, Footprints on a Small Planet, available at Amazon.com)
About the Author
Born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in 1939 on the eve of WWII, Theodore P. Druch, Ted to his friends, has misspent his life in various vain pursuits including an MA in Near Eastern Studies, several years as a resident at Timothy Leary’s League for Spiritual Discovery in Millbrook, New York and later in an Ashram in Benson, Arizona; in San Francisco as a general contractor remodeling old Victorians (only their houses); as a neophyte computer geek helping his wife Maria in her fledgling software business; and finally, as a windblown vagabond, traipsing around the planet from one hemisphere to the other with Maria and their beloved Miniature Schnauzers Sherman and Schatzie.
Today, ensconced in a lovely house with an open atrium in the heart of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, Ted has embarked upon a new incarnation as a writer, hoping to get all the above down on paper before his ultimate eviction from the world writes an unwelcome finis to his adventures.
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